


Where Forever Lies

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: American Music Awards 2015, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They sit there on the bed for a few seconds, just looking at each other, and Pete tells himself he doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s pupils dilate slightly or the way the tip of his pink tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. God, it would be so easy to just lean in and—</em>
</p><p> <em>“C’mon,” he says finally, and stands up. “I know how to cheer you up.”</em></p><p> <em>Patrick blinks at him quizzically. “How?”</em></p><p> <em>"Dance with me."</em></p><p>###</p><p>Patrick is late to the AMAs. He says it's because of a meeting, but after the festivities of the evening Pete finally finds out the truth. Then they dance a little, and despite the champagne buzzing in their systems, everything suddenly becomes clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Forever Lies

**Author's Note:**

> been working on finishing this one for like a month now. that gosh-darned tie grab interview was just too adorable--it was impossible to not be inspired by it. hope you like this humble offering :)
> 
> p.s. the song they dance to is called "I'll Follow You" by Shinedown. I don't own it or any of the members of fob, i promise.

Patrick’s voice is barely audible over the din of the crowd and the music, even when he’s talking right in Pete’s ear. Still, Pete manages to decipher the words, “I’m getting a headache. Can we head back up to the room?”

Pete takes another sip from his champagne flute and shrugs. He wouldn’t mind calling it a night at this point; honestly, he’s sick of the after party, too. The post-victory hysteria had worn off about an hour ago for him—while the sight of the glass award sitting on the bar fills his chest with a burning pride he hasn’t felt in a while, his party animal tendencies aren’t as prevalent as they used to be. In fact, he’s borderline _sleepy._ How are Joe and Andy still across the room, laughing their asses off like it’s only noon? And is that—are they talking to fucking _Coldplay?_ Yeah, that’s definitely Jonny Buckland hamming it up with Joe. Pete feels the brief urge to join their little huddle for a minute, but that would mean leaving Patrick and walking _all the way over there…_

 _Fuck, I’m getting old,_ Pete thinks with an internal sigh.

“Yeah, c’mon,” he finally tells Patrick with a gentle grin, jerking his head towards the exit. “I’m kinda burned out, too.” He drops a twenty on the counter and slips off the stool, scooping up the award in one hand. He’s just tipsy enough that it almost slips from his grip, eliciting a quick panicked noise from Patrick, but he catches it, chuckling nervously. All clichés aside, an AMA trophy really is heavier than it looks.

“Dude, you’ve only had, like, two drinks,” Patrick chides as they leave the ballroom on the first floor of the hotel, elbowing Pete in the ribs playfully.

“Shut up,” Pete scoffs. “Thing’s slippery.”

“Sure. Just don’t break it until we’ve had it for at least twelve hours, alright?”

“Hey, do _you_ wanna take it? It’s not easy being burdened with such a noble task as Trophy Transportation, y’know. And it really is kinda heavy. The trophy, I mean.”

“Then hold it with _both hands,_ dick.”

“What? Hold my dick with both—“

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Pete!” Patrick’s shaking his head in exasperation, but he’s trying to muffle his laughs behind one hand. His cheeks are also turning a delightful shade of rosy pink, which signifies that he’s both embarrassed and begrudgingly amused. Pete counts this as his second victory of the evening.

As they wait for the elevator in companionable silence, Pete risks a quick sidelong glance at his best friend. There’s a soft smile on Patrick’s face as he watches the dial above the sliding doors count down to one, and the rosy glow hasn’t left his face quite yet—Pete figures they’re both a little buzzed on champagne. He tries not to smile too wide when Patrick glances at him in confusion, wondering why he’s staring.

“Can’t help it, ‘Trick,” Pete says cheekily, slinging an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. “You’re just too darn cute.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and blushes a darker shade of red, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his own grin. “Hate you,” he grouses, but surprisingly, he doesn’t shrug Pete’s arm off.

Pete’s chest glows. “Liar.”

“Whatever.” _Victory number three._

While they wait out the elevator’s slow descent, Pete reflects on some of the other occurrences of the past few hours, and realizes he’s had significantly more little victories than he’d realized. A warmth spreads through his body at the thought of the two interviews they’d done—during one, Pete had made Patrick laugh so hard he’d nearly fallen over. And the other…God. Patrick isn’t known to be very physical with Pete in public, so the bassist hadn’t exactly been prepared for the one-armed hug, chest pat, and fucking _tie tug_ that Patrick had so kindly gifted him with backstage. He’s sure the video will show up on the internet soon, if it hasn’t already, and when it does he’s gonna find every screencap and GIF and save them to his phone.

The tingles that race up his spine every time Patrick touches him are familiar but terrifying. Pete’s used to them by now—it’s been fourteen fucking years, after all, since he first hugged Patrick in the basement of that little house in Glenview after hearing him sing for the first time—but they still leave Pete with a strange, barely-there sadness. He knows he’ll probably never have Patrick like he wants, even though he sometimes fools himself into thinking otherwise. But…as long as he gets to have this, Patrick pressed against his side relaxed and content with a little smile on his face that he saves for Pete and Pete alone, the bassist thinks he’ll be alright.

It’s worked for fourteen years, after all.

The elevator finally reaches the lobby, and the two musicians step onto it in unison, half-tangled together. Pete hits the button for their floor and sighs as he leans back against one of the mirrored walls surrounding them. Patrick follows, still hooked under his arm.

Halfway up, Pete distantly hears Patrick ask, “Hey, you alright?” He blinks and realizes he’s staring at the trophy in his hand.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Pete replies, looking up and grinning easily at him. “Just…still kind of in awe, y’know?”

Patrick nods in understanding, smiling back. “So am I,” he says, and he shifts his gaze down to the glass award somewhat dazedly. “Can’t believe after all this time our fans still love us so much. It’s—it’s more than crazy; it’s almost _absurd_. Like, what did we even do to deserve it?”

“Well,” Pete reasons, putting on a thoughtful face, “I think it might be a combination of my kick-ass lyrics, Joe’s sick riffs, Andy’s general awesomeness, and your angelic voice.” He smirks at Patrick and nudges his ribs. “Honestly, it’s probably just you. Your voice. And the way you’re always so sweet to every fan you meet.” _And your face, and your eyes, and your laugh, and your…everything._ “What can I say, Pattycakes? Maybe you won them over single-handedly.”

“I highly doubt that,” Patrick says, but he’s blushing again.

“Don’t,” Pete insists as the elevator doors whoosh open. Patrick gently extracts himself from the bassist’s half-hug and leads the way to their shared suite.

“It’s not just me, alright? It can’t be.” The singer’s voice is strangely quiet now as he digs the keycard out of his back pocket and swipes it in the lock. He opens the door and shuffles into the room, flicking on the lights as he goes.

Something about the sudden change in Patrick’s cheerful demeanor snaps Pete out of his champagne buzz a bit. He follows Patrick to the bedroom and sets the trophy on the nightstand between the two queen beds, furrowing his brow in concern. “What do you mean?”

Patrick sighs and bites his lip, casting his eyes down at the plush carpet beneath their feet. He shrugs off his suit jacket and unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves. “I-I dunno,” he replies finally, rolling the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows. It’s ridiculously attractive. So is the way he effortlessly flicks his deft fingers as he unbuttons his collar and undoes his bow tie, leaving it hanging around his neck. “I mean…fuck, I don’t even know what I mean.” He sits down on the edge of his bed and looks up at Pete, and there’s _sadness_ in his eyes. “Um…I wasn’t late tonight because of a meeting.”

 _What?_ Pete blinks at him, suddenly very concerned. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. Tonight’s supposed to be a happy night. “Okay,” he says slowly, discarding his own jacket on the bed behind him before going to sit beside his best friend. “Why were you late, then? Kinda freaked us out a little, actually.”

“I-I, um…” Patrick sighs again and takes his hat off his head, running his fingers through his thinning, fair hair. “I went on Twitter after I got dressed, y’know, just to scroll around and see what people were saying about the awards tonight.”

“Yeah…” Pete thinks he knows where this is going already, and he doesn’t like it.

“And I…fuck, you’re gonna think I’m ridiculous.” Patrick fiddles with his own fingers in his lap and continues in a small voice. “I-I saw a fan’s tweet about how they hoped we would win tonight, and it had all these retweets and favorites and stuff, which was great, but in the replies…” He pauses, looking up at Pete sadly. “I _know_ you always tell me not to read internet comments or pay attention to them or let them go to my head, b-but…there were all these people saying how much we sucked and mentioning other bands they thought should win—I didn’t really care about those, really, ‘cuz we hear that shit every day. What upset me—” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “—S-Some jagoff was like, ‘Walk The Moon should win because at least their singer looks like a rock star’. And they—they posted this picture of me from, like, last month, and they said something like ‘At least WTM isn’t full of old, tired, overweight has-beens’.”

Pete’s practically vibrating with anger. He breathes heavily through his nose and growls, punching the mattress next to him. “What the _fuck?!”_ he exclaims. How are there people in the world who actually _do_ shit like that? “Patrick, please, you _have_ to know they’re wrong—”

But Patrick just keeps talking. “I-It had like thirty favorites and a few retweets and there were people calling them out for it, sure, but there were people agreeing with it, too.” He hangs his head and closes his eyes, defeated. “After I saw it, I sort of—I-I had a little freak-out in the bathroom off the lobby and I almost didn’t go to the show. I told you guys and some fans who were asking where I was that I had a phone conference that was running long, but I was actually…hiding in a handicap stall and trying to get myself together.”

“Patrick, no…” Pete remembers Patrick taking a little longer to get dressed and telling the band he’d meet them on the red carpet. When he’d texted them that someone from the label had called, they’d believed him. Pete had started to get worried after they were forced to walk the red carpet without him, but Patrick had seemed fine when he’d joined them in the theater later. He turns towards his best friend and shakes his head, feeling awful that he hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. “‘Trick, they—that asshole was—whoever they were, they were fucking _wrong.”_ He puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes, dipping his head to try and meet the younger man’s eyes. “You _have_ to know that. You deserve this award as much as the rest of us, maybe even more. Without you, there’s no fucking way we’d have even gotten the nomination in the first place.”

Patrick just scoffs. “You could’ve done it without me,” he says quietly. “I—I couldn’t even give a decent speech. What kind of rock star still gets stage fright after almost fifteen fucking years?”

“Uh, like _all_ of them,” Pete insists. He reaches up and hooks a finger under Patrick’s chin; when he can finally see those blue-green eyes, they’re brimming with tears. “Hey.” He gently swipes his thumb under Patrick’s eyes, smiling at him reassuringly. “You’re the fucking heart and soul of the band, man. None of us would do it without you. And it’s okay to tell us when you’re feeling shitty, y’know—I thought you’d have learned that by now.”

“I know, I know,” Patrick says. He sniffs and blinks the tears away before they can fall. “’S just…it was a big night, and I didn’t wanna ruin it for you guys.”

“You wouldn’t’ve ruined it, I promise.” Pete leans in and wraps Patrick in a tight, warm hug, ignoring the way his heart flutters when Patrick immediately hugs back. “We’re your friends, ‘Trick. And me, I’m your fucking _best_ friend. It’s my job to make you feel better when you’re bummed. How many times have you done the same for me, anyway?”

Patrick chuckles quietly. “More than I can count.”

“Exactly.” Pete pulls away and smiles at the singer, pleased when he gets a small grin in return.

They sit there on the bed for a few seconds, just looking at each other, and Pete tells himself he doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s pupils dilate slightly or the way the tip of his pink tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. God, it would be so easy to just lean in and—

“C’mon,” he says finally, and stands up. “I know how to cheer you up.”

Patrick blinks at him quizzically, seemingly snapping himself out of whatever trance he’d been in moments ago. “How?”

Pete digs his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it, opening the music app with a tap. He scrolls through his playlists for a few seconds before selecting a song that’s always reminded him of his and Patrick’s relationship. It’s slow and melodic in the beginning, just vocals and a piano, but the chorus gets more rock-ballad-y—it’s right up their alley. As it starts to play, he turns the volume all the way up and sets his phone down on the nightstand in front of the trophy.

Turning to face Patrick, Pete holds out one hand to him. “Dance with me.”

Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the residual elation from earlier in the night. But shockingly, Patrick inhales, takes Pete’s hand, and stands.

Pete beams at him, smiling so wide his cheeks almost hurt. He tugs Patrick close, loops one arm around his waist, and starts to sway with the music.

_“If I could find assurance_

_To leave you behind_

_I know my better half would fade…”_

The verses are sweet, but they don’t make a whole lot of sense—classic rock-and-roll. It’s the chorus that really gets to Pete, and as it approaches, he dips his head to whisper the words softly in Patrick’s ear.

_“I’ll follow you down through the eye of the storm_

_Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm…”_

Patrick’s breath hitches a bit, and his grip on Pete’s hand tightens. The bassist smiles to himself and continues, hoping Patrick can hear the sincerity in his voice.

_“I’ll follow you down while we’re passing through space_

_I don’t care if we fall from grace_

_I’ll follow you down.”_

The percussion dies down and the piano takes over again as the second verse starts. Pete leans back and looks down at Patrick; the shorter man’s eyes are wide and adoring as they gaze up into Pete’s, and a tiny, awestruck smile alights on his perfect lips. “Pete,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

“Ssh,” Pete soothes. His heart pounds rapidly as he looks down at Patrick—hatless, hair ruffled, shirt collar unbuttoned, soft round cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. His cupid’s bow lips look so perfect, practically edible; Pete remembers him freaking out about the little zit that popped up on his chin this morning, but it’s barely noticeable now. He’s the most beautiful thing Pete’s ever seen. As the chorus repeats itself, the bassist leans down to rest their foreheads together and a thrill shoots up his spine when Patrick presses closer to him. Their chests are brushing now; Pete can feel Patrick’s heart beating just as hard as his own. It’s both comforting and perplexing at the same time. When he whispers the words of the bridge, their lips are scant inches away from brushing.

_“I’ll follow you down to where forever lies_

_Without a doubt, I’m on your side_

_There’s nowhere else that I would rather be_

_I’m not about to compromise_

_Or give you up to say goodbye_

_I’ll guide you through the deep_

_I’ll keep you close to me…”_

“Pete,” Patrick whispers again. His hand is starting to sweat in Pete’s, and his blush is darkening. He looks apprehensive, but there’s a gleam of _something_ in his eyes that makes Pete’s pulse race faster. “I…what is this?”

“I-I don’t know,” Pete replies, heart in his throat. He swallows hard, glancing down at Patrick’s slightly parted lips for a brief moment. “What do you want it to be?”

Patrick just stares into his eyes and says nothing at first. He slowly peels his hand out of Pete’s and they both stop swaying at the same moment, even though the song isn’t finished yet. Biting his lip, Patrick tightens his hold around Pete’s waist just slightly and reaches up with his now-free hand to grip Pete’s tie in an echo from earlier. He inhales deep through his nose and lets it out in a shuddering exhale as he murmurs, “W-What if I wanted it to be a thank-you? For…everything you’ve ever done for me?”

Pete can’t breathe. “U-Um. Yeah, you could, uh…that would work, I think.”

“Yeah?” Patrick stretches up on his tiptoes a little. The song is entering its final crescendo, blaring from the speakers of Pete’s phone, but the only thing Pete can hear is Patrick’s staccato breaths buffeting against his own mouth. “A-And what if I also wanted it to be a really— _really_ scary risk?”

“I’d help you not be scared.” Pete can almost _taste_ Patrick’s lips. _Just an inch closer—_

“You always do.” Patrick blinks, and his eyes slowly flutter closed. His arm moves from Pete’s waist to around his neck, and he tugs Pete closer by his tie. “I…I-I think I want it to be both. Is that okay?”

Pete nods, digging his fingertips harder into Patrick’s hips. “Yeah, _Patrick,_ that’s—d-definitely okay.” He can barely hear his own voice over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Good,” Patrick says, and then he’s leaning up and closing the scant remaining distance between their mouths, and the world stops turning.

The song starts repeating but it’s a distant, distant drone in the very back of Pete’s consciousness, because he is _kissing Patrick_ after all these years and it’s unbe- _fucking_ -lievable. The shorter man gasps when Pete tilts his head and slides one hand up his back to tangle in his soft hair; Pete uses it to his advantage as he slips his tongue past Patrick’s parted lips. Patrick’s mouth drops open further and he whimpers, brushing his tongue perfectly against Pete’s. The bassist can’t think, can’t breathe, can only kiss and be kissed by his best friend here in the middle of their ritzy hotel room. It’s so perfect he almost tears up. Patrick’s trembling in his arms—from fear or excitement or perhaps a mix of both—so Pete just holds him tighter and kisses him deeper and chases every drop of doubt out of both their heads.

On the nightstand, their AMA sits forlornly, already gathering dust. Pete doesn’t care. He’s just gotten the best prize he could’ve ever asked for, and he’s gonna make sure he does all he can to earn it every day from now on.

The song they’d danced to plays and plays until Pete’s phone runs out of battery. The two men never notice.

###


End file.
